


truth be told.

by izzyasavestheday (stilessexual)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, barely but just incase, blood mention, shadowhunters au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8143570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilessexual/pseuds/izzyasavestheday
Summary: Bellamy –even his name sounded like a lullaby, like a balm to all of Clarke’s hurts—tore his eyes away from Raven to Clarke and deadpanned: “Because you’re Shadowhunters and you have a sworn duty to protect the mundane world from the horrors of the Shadow World.”
Across time and space, from Brooklyn to the Bronx, despite the vampires, despite the hurting of everyday life somehow Bellamy and Clarke find their way to each other. 
A Shadowhunters AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this first chapter of this a while ago but the anxiety of having something unfinished out there on the world wide web freaked me out too much so I took it down and finished it as well as I could with grad school being a thing. I feel like Shadowhunters isn't really aimed at my age group but I love it and I love the 100 so, this happened. I kinda hint at book stuff sometimes, I think, but tbh I read the books maybe 6 years ago so I could be just projecting. 
> 
> this work is unbetaed.

There were so many things Clarke didn’t know, but here’s what she was sure of:

  1. Angel blood flowed through her as sure as the sun rose and set.
  2. Clarke was not fast enough to save Wells’ life.



It’s moments like these where everything, _everything_ —from the shift of the Earth beneath her feet, to the steady beat of her heart— slowed down to match the sink of the demon’s teeth into the flesh of Wells’ throat.

_Entreat me not to leave thee,_

“Please,” she gasped. But the ache in her own throat (a distant mirror of his) told her it was much too late. It was too late. It was too late. Raven swung her blade through the demon, orange ash dissolved into nothing. Too late too late toolatetoolate. “Please, please, please.”

Clarke didn’t know who she was begging.

_Or return from following after thee—_

Blood bubbled from Wells’ mouth, from his throat, no rune in the Grey book or warlock could stop this, not even Clary herself, angel blood running through her—

It was on her hands. In her hair. It was in her mouth. In was lodged in her heart.

“Clarke,” he barely managed to exhale against the gurgle of life in his throat. Panicky, scared, and suddenly small in a way he hadn’t been since he’d been a child. She never remembered him ever being this _small_.

_For whither thou goest, I will go,_

“Oh god,” sobs wracked her aching body, her broken heart. She cradled his head to her chest and rocked him to an eternal sleep. “I’m so sorry, Wells. I am so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he exhaled weakly. The barest whisper. The end.

_And where thou lodgest, I will lodge._

There was a heaviness to him, suddenly. He was a weight that she’d carry around her neck for the rest of her life.

_Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God._

Clarke wailed her grief to the dispassionate Moon.

_Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried._

“Clarke, we have to go—

“I can’t leave him, I can’t just—

“ _Clarke_ , the cops and fuck knows who else are coming we have to go—

Clarke couldn’t breathe for the sobs that crashed through her. She couldn’t breathe against the weight of him in her arms. “Raven, they _killed_ him. He’s dead.” 

Raven held Clarke’s blood-streaked face in her hands. Raven, Raven, beautiful Raven spoke through the tears that dripped off of her chin, through the grief that locked her throat tight. She loved Wells too. They all loved him. “I know, and by the Angel, we will fucking destroy them for it. But right now we have to go, Clarke. You have to move.”

_The Angel do so to me, and more also,_

Clarke pressed her best friend’s –her parabatai, the other half of her soul, the very reason for the beat of her heart— body to hers one last time. She felt his weaning warmth one last time. Beneath the suffocating copper stench of blood, she smelt his earth-rain scent one last time.

_“Please, Clarke._ ”

She pressed her trembling lips to his cold ones. The chaste kiss was a mockery of the tragedy, the horror, of his untimely death. “May we meet again, brother.”

Clarke left the body of her best friend torn and bloodied somewhere in the Bronx, and she would never, ever forgive herself for it.

_If aught but death part thee and me._

~*~*~*~

There are moments in our lives, singular events that, without a doubt, fuck up everything else we were once meant for. You see, Bellamy’s held on to this belief since he was a child –that Time exists all at once and a single choice, a single misstep, could completely alter everything.

Like –what if his father never died? Or his mother never drank? What if Bellamy had walked away? What if he’d been selfish for once in his life?

Whatever we were once destined for collapses in on itself and we find ourselves rushing to keep up, suddenly tearing ourselves apart to make room for the change that Time brings. More often than not, we have to make room for the grief that comes along.

Bellamy had been through some shit, okay?

 He knew everything there was to know about grief when his dad died, when Octavia’s dad walked out and didn’t spare them a single glance back, when his mom died, when Gina died –each blow seemingly more painful than the last. He knew everything there was to know about sacrifice when he found himself a single father, mother, and brother at 18 years old.  

Bellamy knew all he ever wanted to know about lost destinies.   

(He’d fight anyone who even thought it wasn’t worth it. Octavia was worth every second of it. Every ounce of that sacrifice was worth it. He’d do it all over again for the rest of eternity for the simple _chance_ that Octavia may live a happy life.)

But all of it, every single moment of it, paled compared to that day. To the moment his baby sister called him, panic making her voice young and smaller than he’d ever heard it.

“ _Bell_ ,”

“Octavia?” The usually overwhelming noise of the bar faded into nothing. Every single one of his senses was honed on his baby sister; Bellamy could taste the acid of her panic on the tip of his tongue. “Octavia, what’s wrong?”

He could hear her ragged breathing, the distant slap of her sneakers on the wet concrete. New York never seemed as still as it did in that singular moment.

“Bellamy,” she finally gasped. “Someone’s after me.”

Grief found a way around his neck and squeezed.

 “Where are you?”

Silence. Silence except for the heaviness of her breath the constant _slap slap slap_ of her sneakers. A distant car horn. A sob escaping her throat.

He spat out her hallowed name through clenched teeth, each syllable fighting its way past his numb lips. “Octavia, where are you?”

“A couple blocks from the bar. Bellamy –

 --and nothing. Nothing.

Bellamy ran towards the screaming. He didn’t know if it was Octavia or everything in him coming to a screeching halt to prepare his body for the loss to come.  And what a loss it was.    

Panic gripped him as he passed one empty alleyway after the next, the screeching ringing in his ears. _Protect Octavia Protect OctaviaProtectOctavia—_

He never found her. He never found her. He never—

~*~*~*~

Time passed oddly in the wake of loss.

The clinical, rational _I-wanted-to-be-a-mundane-doctor_ part of Clarke recognized the dissociation, the rage that came and went too quickly, and the never-ending silence she constantly experienced as symptoms of depression, but her people were an arrogant breed. In their holy conceit, the Shadowhunters sneered down their disgust at anything as _mundane_ as mental illness, the thought of it never even crossing their minds as a possibility, but nonetheless—

(They thought their angel blood made them so different from the humans they protected, little did they even begin to understand.)

Grief.

It slithered, wound itself around her neck and made a home for itself in her bones.

It’s difficult; explaining to those who did not have a parabatai the way their loss ruined. It ruined morning coffee, because they were no longer there to share it with you. It ruined sleep, because they were no longer in the room across the hall sleeping safely near you. It ruined the very feel of your heartbeat because once upon a time the other half of your being shared that same heartbeat, that same exhale, that same life—

Clarke took a deep breath. She centered herself and willed the grief away for another time.

Three months.

Surprisingly, the Clave let her be. Even when she lashed out (harsh and cold in a way she never was with Wells because he was warmth and kindness personified, he brought balance to the very Earth, let alone her, to the hardness she thought she’d left behind years ago) even when she screwed up missions. Everyone was patient in the face of the enormity of her loss, and well—

It infuriated her. It enraged her.

The door slammed behind Raven. Clarke exhaled roughly and tried, really desperately tried, to ignore the measured, knowing look Lincoln sent her way. 

“Problem?” she asked, lightly.

Lincoln snorted and moved to sit directly in her line of vision. She stared at the tattoos that riddled the immortals’ body, rather than look him in the eye.

“Do you feel better?”

 “Excuse me?”

“These fights, Clarke.” he supplied, ever so patient. “The fights you keep picking with the people you love. Do they make you feel better about losing Wells?”

Three months, three months and hearing his name still felt like a metal-tipped boot to the chest. It still felt like her ribcage caving in and crushing her heart.

 “No,” Lincoln said. “I didn’t think so. They never helped me.”

She glared at him, jaw clenched, lips curled in disgust. What else was she supposed to do? Fucking cry over it? _Again?_

Lincoln snorted, probably at her ugly expression, “That’s the last time you pick a fight with Raven, Clarke.”

Something reckless and angry flitted underneath Clarke’s skin, she grinned, ugly. “Are you threatening me, warlock?”

Neither of them missed the Circle-reminiscent malice of her question, the way she spat _warlock_ like a curse. Lincoln, with his ancient tired eyes, stared her down for so long –already having forgiven her, because no one understood her loss like he did. The man lived through lifetimes of her loss.

“No threat, Clarke.” he finally answered. Regret crawled into her mouth and down her throat, it settled heavy and acidic in the pit of her stomach, what the hell was wrong with her? Lincoln was one of her oldest friends. “I just don’t know how much more forgiveness Raven has in her.”

She pressed her palms into her eyes until colors exploded behind her closed lids. She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly felt the warmth of his hands on hers.  

“Talk to me, Clarke.” He whispered. “Please, talk to me.”

How long could she keep pushing?

If she pushed hard enough, would it bring Wells back?

Clarke started, voice rough. She’d buried these words for months, she had no idea how they would sound like crawling out of her throat. “Did I ever tell you that he and I thought we were soulmates?”

“Soulmates,” he repeated, as dumbfounded as someone like Lincoln could ever be. Clarke held onto him like an anchor. 

“Soulmates,” she repeated, chuckling humorlessly despite the weariness in her bones. “We were obsessed with the idea for a while. I was the Yin to his Yang. We were soul sharers. We believed our souls had met before we’d come to this world and recognized each other as two parts of a whole. We sincerely believed that our souls had been waiting just to meet again.” 

Lincoln smiled a sweet, sweet smile. “Very twilight,”

She blinked, confused, at what she assumed to be a pop culture reference. 

Lincoln sighed lightly and muttered something distasteful about Shadowhunters. “Go on, Clarke.”  

She stared into the distance. The memories of the childhood she’d shared with Wells had been playing on an endless loop in her mind for the last three months. She suddenly wished to tear them out, if only to keep them safe, to visit them when she was no longer able to remember. She wondered if Lincoln could do that.  

“We were kids,” she supplied, almost as a justification. “We didn’t even understand what parabatai were, really, but the moment we were introduced to the concept we wanted it. We wanted to be together for the rest of our lives. Together, god, together—

She pressed her lips tightly. Clarke was so fucking sick of crying.

Lincoln didn’t speak. He waited her out, and held on so tight, afraid she’d float away if he let go.

“Apart, we were like any ordinary Shadowhunters.” she spoke haltingly, carefully pronouncing her words despite the tears burning her throat. “But together? Lincoln, together, when we fought we were _one_. He was so much more than just my brother. He was all I had. And I lost him. Because I was too slow. He was all I ever needed and now he’s gone and I’m here –without him.”

Her voice broke, again. Clarke’s tears dripped earnest down her chin. “I never wanted to live without him, Lincoln. I never wanted this.”

Lincoln pressed her small body into his, engulfed her into his too warm arms.

 “I just,” she sobbed into his chest like a child. “I just need something to do. I just—it has to get easier, right, Lincoln? It gets easier, right? Right?”

“Yes,” he slowly replied. “Some hurts are easier to bear with the passage of time.”

“I just need something to do.” she repeated, having barely heard him. Clarke felt like there were ants crawling underneath her skin. Wells was no longer around to keep her anxiety at bay.

Lincoln smoothed her hair for so long, she thought he’d never speak, and then, finally, _finally_.

“Have you heard about the disappearing mundanes?”

~*~*~*~

Three months. Three fucking months.

Some days, on the very worst days, if it weren’t for the pictures and the videos and that last voice message Bellamy would’ve thought that he’d dreamed his baby sister into existence. He’d have truly thought that the last god-knows-how-many-years were just one long, intricate, gorgeous _lie_.

Three months. _Three. Months._ Even during her rebellious high school years and the very worst of their fights, they’d never gone two days without orbiting cautiously around each other with awkward apologizes on their lips and forgiveness at the tips of their fingers, as easy as breathing.  

He cleared his throat roughly, “I’m sorry, I really am—

The woman laughed tearfully, and waved a shaky hand. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve been right where you are. I won’t fault you the questions.” 

The days passed oddly in the wake of Octavia’s disappearance (his mind always stressed the word disappearance _disappearance_ because she can’t be gone. She can’t be gone. He’d have felt it. Every atom in his body would’ve mourned her. The sky would’ve missed her. The sun would never shine again.)  They were too fast, every moment spent not looking for her felt like a moment lost, a moment where she slipped further away from him. Yet, at the same time, everyday felt like an endlessly looped nightmare. It took eons for him to find the first family that lost a daughter the same way he had lost Octavia –so sudden and wretched from their life without a single trace. When Bellamy found that first family, the rest came tumbling through, like he’d opened up a Pandora’s Box of grief and unanswered questions.

He found all the people that were left behind.

“We, god, we haven’t found a body,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think that’s the worst part. I have no idea what happened to my child. He was eighteen years old, can you believe that? Eighteen, barely lived.”

All the people left without even a body to mourn.

Bellamy’s jaw ached from clenching. His hands hurt from subsiding the shaking. His eyes hurt from the lack of sleep. He detachedly wondered when he’d last slept through the night, and then gave up. It had been too long.

The woman, Mary, stared at him with watery eyes and a sad smile. “Are you alright, Bellamy? You can talk to me, you know. I was there too.”

_There_ , how many times has he heard that word repeated to him in the last weeks? _There. We’ve been There too, Bellamy._ What the fuck is _There_? 

He asked, fearing the answer but needing desperately to ask, “Do you ever get out of there?”

She snorted, “No, baby.”

Of course not.

Mary rubbed her hands together, held them almost in prayer. “Truth be told, I never got the answers I needed. The closest I ever got was when I met a man that swore on his life that it was vampires that took him, and that should tell you how hopeless it was for me.”

Bellamy’s strangled laugh died in his throat as he distantly recalled a woman he’d chanced in a bar that Octavia frequented. He’d written her off as a dead end. She had watched Bellamy as he passed around a picture of Octavia, her kohl lined eyes never wavering—

_“She’s pretty.” She watched him over the rim of her beer. She had odd, almost tribal tattoos all over her arms and a rigid posture that reminded him of a soldier. “What happened to her?”_

_He explained to her, aware that his words were clipped and harsh. The amused way her eyes followed his story set him on edge._

_“Is this funny to you?” He finally asked, voice shaking with anger._

_She snorted. “Not at all, but you’d best stay out of Shadow World business, if you know what’s good for you.”_

_He narrowed his eyes, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”_

_Her grin was feral. For a quick moment, Bellamy considered slamming her beer into his own face for how infuriated he was. “Seriously,” she went on, “last thing you wanna get caught up in is vampire bullshit.”_

_He breathed heavy, retort ready on his lips, but between one blink and the next she was gone._

“Bellamy, sweetheart” Mary gently pressed a hand to his. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

The police were useless. Flyers were useless. The private investigator he’d shelled out half his savings to was absolutely useless. Too many families had lost too many people in the last few months and Bellamy? Bellamy wasn’t going to let his sister be one of those people even if it meant believing in the unbelievable. He’d believe in ghouls and time travel and the fucking illuminati if it meant he had half a chance at getting Octavia back.

“No, no.” He tried to smile, for Mary’s sake, and patted her hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me, I really appreciate it.”

As soon as Bellamy decided to _believe_ something deep within his mind clicked and the glamour of the Shadow World fell.

Mary had unknowingly given him his first clue.

Vampires.

~*~*~*~

When Maya died, Clarke was barely seventeen years old. She was barely a Shadowhunter, barely much of anything, really, but she’d been too slow (always, always too slow) to save her friend’s life. Clarke knew that Jasper would never, ever forgive her or the Shadowhunters for what they had cost him.

(His runes. His family. What should have been the eternal love of his immortal life.) 

Ten years later, ten aching years later Jasper’s always-seventeen face stared at her through hooded eyes and loose fists. He didn’t carry his grief around his neck any longer; he’d never give the Shadowhunters the satisfaction but his rage (at Clarke, only Clarke) was apparent in his every tightly controlled step away from them and everything they stood for.

Dead was the clumsy Shadowhunter with the bright smile and easy laugh.

“If it isn’t the Commander of Death,” he snarled. “How may I be of service?”

(In the wake of losing Wells, Clarke walked into a demon nest, alone and barely armed, and slaughtered every single one. Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike now spoke of her in whispered, revered tones. It made her ill. No one spoke of how she had the ability to do what she did; no one spoke of the blood that ran through her veins. No one questioned how angelic it actually was.)

Jasper spat the title she’d been given the same way Clarke had spat warlock –like a curse, like a death sentence, she knew it to be both. She’d beg for forgiveness at his feet if she thought it would help, but it wouldn’t, and today she didn’t come for his forgiveness.

Today, she had something to do.

“Mundanes have been disappearing.”

He stared and stared and stared and Clarke thought sadly of the day when everyone Jasper knew (and loved) from his mortal life would die and leave him. Maya was supposed to have been with him at the end of it all.

“And you came to me, why, exactly?”

 “Jasper,” she said, “I’m sorry but our intel says it’s the Night Children.”

“Of course, it’s always the Downworlders,” Jasper replied, voice dangerously soft. “I just can’t keep my people in check, can I, Clarke?

“I’m not blaming you—

He rolled his eyes, hard. “Why do you suddenly care? This has been going on for months. We informed the high and mighty Clave.”

Clarke’s mouth opened and closed in surprise, causing Jasper to snort disdainfully.

“They didn’t tell you,” he laughed now, ugly and hard and she missed him, desperately. “Of course they didn’t. The Clave’s image comes before all else. Nothing’s changed much in the last ten years, hm?”

“No,” she replied. For the first time in her life, since realizing what a Shadowhunter even was, Clarke questioned how much longer she could live this way before it killed her –literally or metaphorically, it didn’t matter much anymore. She questioned whether or not this was a worthy enough cause to die for. Clarke, treacherously, questioned if she could have something else. “Nothing’s changed at all.”

Jasper was quiet for too long and when Clarke dared to look up she found him staring intently at the crook of her arm.

Where her parabatai rune and once been.

Where lay nothing more than a fading scar, now.

He worked his jaw, like he was trying desperately not to say anything until a miracle occurred. “D-did it,” he cleared his throat roughly, “Are you good?”

“No,” Clarke was the motherfucking Wanheda, once upon a time she’d held one of the kings of hell at her mercy, but his strained question was all it took for her to burst into ugly, pathetic tears. “No, I’m not. I’m not good.”

Jasper did the kindest thing he could have ever done for her: averted his gaze from her tears. They sat in a silence that wasn’t borne out of bitterness for the first time in years.

~*~*~*~

Mind over matter took on a whole new meaning when through his simple will the glamour of the Shadow World fell away and it became as real to Bellamy as his own world had once been. Before—

 (Everything in his life was divided into a Before and After –before Octavia’s disappearance and after. Before and After.)

Before, Bellamy would have never noticed the inhuman beauty of the two women sitting at the bar. He would have never thought twice about the way their laughs sent shivers down his spine or how if he looked at them from the corner of his eye, they shifted in and out of existence, like they were never meant to be seen by his kind. Before, he’d have never thought them to be Seelies. Before, he’d have never known that that one café in Brooklyn was a known werewolf haunt. He wouldn’t be obsessed with vampires, Before.

Before, he’d never be begging his way into the Shadow World because Before the Shadow World was just stories, just fairytales, just bullshit people made up to pass the time. 

Before, Before, Before—

This was all before he stood in the middle of the bar he frequently picked up shifts at and felt the cold grip of death greet him like an old friend. Every inhale felt like ice past his numb lips. Every moment the dull thud of his heart slowed, and he _knew_.

“Bellamy,” he distantly heard Miller’s worried voice, “Hey man, are you okay?”

“Something’s wrong,” he gasped. Bellamy’s hands found his throat and he desperately clawed at the pain there. “Something’s wrong with Octavia.”

Somewhere farther than the panic could reach; Bellamy recalled an old, old memory of his mother standing listlessly in their kitchen, not too long after Octavia’s father happened to them. He remembered the way Aurora shuddered, the way she’d rubbed her bare arms, the sad smile she’d sent his way.

“Feels like someone’s just walked all over my grave,” she laughed, tired.

Bellamy, instinctually, knew he was as connected to Octavia as he was to his very soul, and so he knew that that was the day he’d lost her.

_She’s gone,_ He thought as darkness overwhelmed him. _They killed her._

~*~*~*~

Listen, Clarke by no means wanted to die, exactly, but—

“That was so fucking reckless, Clarke. What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Clarke raised a delicate brow and laughed, though the entire situation was decidedly unfunny. Raven’s shaking hands weren’t funny. The worried knot in Lincoln’s brow and his white knuckled grip on the table weren’t funny. Not a god damn thing was funny about that night. “I got the job done.”

Clarke pushed and pushed and pushed and finally, _finally_ Raven reached across the divide Clarke had created between them, grabbed Clarke by front of her shirt and shook her so hard she’d swear her skull rattled.

“You think you’re actually the commander of the death, you fucking idiot?” Raven was crying something awful, crying like she’d actually lost her. “You nearly got your throat nearly ripped out because of your stupid fucking martyr—

Clarke knew that if the rogue vampire had gone just a bit deeper, just a couple inches to the left, if Lincoln and Raven hadn’t been fast enough, if Jasper hadn’t come through at the very last second—

 “You think death can’t touch you?”

Raven shook her again, _hard_ , before Lincoln wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her away. Her eyes were wide and wet with a grief that Clarke was all too familiar with and Clarke wanted to beg for forgiveness at a shrine dedicated to each and every one of her friends but she just could not fucking _stop_.

“Raven—

Clarke’s words died on her lips as the room brightened with the tell-tale purple glow of an opening portal. Clarke and Raven brandished their seraph blades (Raven stepped a bit to the front of Clarke because Clarke was still recovering and Clarke thought it would actually kill her) and Lincoln dropped into a defensive position, magic sparking blue and ready at the tips of his fingers.

A man came out of the portal on steady feet. His dark gaze scanned the room expertly before it fell heavily on her.

Some ancient thing inside of her sung at the sight of him.

He raised his empty hands, unthreatening despite the corded muscles running along his arms. His flimsy t-shirt revealed scarred, but rune-free skin –for all intents and purposes, a mundane.

“This isn’t an attack.” he said, voice deep. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

Clarke raised a brow at the stranger-not-stranger, and desperately ignored the way her entire body thrummed with an unfamiliar energy. “Who are you?” 

His eyes never left her, not for a second. “Right now, I’m no more than a mundane with the Sight, walking into a Downworlder bar asking all the wrong questions.”

Clarke tore her eyes away from the impossible man to exchange a disbelieving glance with Raven; their fight and Clarke’s idiocy forgotten in the face of the unknown.

“Enlightening,” Clarke replied, flat. “How’d you portal into the institute? The wards—

“The wards,” the man interrupted, an infuriating smirk gracing the bow of his lips, “don’t mean much if the person who set them is the person who sent me here.”

 Lincoln easily dropped his defensive position and hummed soundly, like the whole situation had already been resolved. “Yeah, I thought that was my magic on him.” 

The man reluctantly tore his eyes away from Clarke to grin boyishly at Lincoln –and just, Clarke’s heart stuttered painfully at the sight, which was fucking ridiculous.

“Man,” he exhaled. “I forgot you used to do your hair like that.”

Lincoln blinked.

“Anyways, yes, exactly. It’s your magic on me because you’re the one that sent me back here.” the man went on. “You send me back to this day on Wells’ 4th birthday—

“What did you just say?” It had been so long since Clarke felt anything but the emptiness that Wells left behind and in the span of two minutes this single man had sent her emotions through a tailspin.

“Shit,” he exhaled roughly. “Sorry princess, we didn’t think that one through.”

“Think _what_ through?” pain, anger, what fucking ever shook through her so intensely that her voice was thick with it. “Who are you?”

He smiled at her –this soft, sad smile with his honest eyes and his hair too long and curling over his ears and Clarke suddenly couldn’t breathe because not even before Wells fucking _died_ , Clarke doesn’t just _feel_ things so freely but looking at him felt like—

Relief.

It felt like relief spreading through everything atom of her existence. Like she’d been looking for something all of her life and just found it.

“I forgot how you were when we first met,” his voice ever so low, just for her, like Lincoln and Raven weren’t standing right there. Like they were the only two people in the entire world.

“Why are you talking to me like that?” She ignored the way her voice broke, ignored the way Raven was watching her with an astonished expression. Clarke couldn’t even begin to blame her. “Why are you talking to me like you _know_ me?”

“That’s because I do,” in his earnestness he took a step forward causing Raven to brandish her seraph blade just under his chin. “For fuck’s sake, Raven.”

“That’s close enough,” but Raven was grinning, “You know my name but I don’t know yours, mundane.”

 He rolled his eyes, “My name is Bellamy Blake. I am a mundane with the Sight.  Like I said, right now I’m –not me _me_ , a past version of me, your version of me—is walking into a bar, where one of Jasper’s more enthusiastic clan members is about five minutes away from turning me into a chew toy.”  

They stared at him in an astonished silence. Or, Clarke and Raven did. Lincoln had written Bellamy off as unthreatening and was tapping away at his phone, no longer even a bit interested in the conversation. 

 “Let’s say you’re telling the truth, why are you in that bar? Why should we help you?” 

Bellamy –even his name sounded like a lullaby, like a balm to all of Clarke’s hurts—tore his eyes away from Raven to Clarke and deadpanned: “Because you’re Shadowhunters and you have a sworn duty to protect the mundane world from the horrors of the Shadow World.”

This time it was Raven’s turn to roll her eyes, “Come on, Blake. If time travel’s a thing, tell us something only someone we’d trust would know. While you’re at it, explain why you’re talking to my girl like you’re married to her.”

Bellamy fucking Blake _smirked_ and Clarke would swear that the very axis of the Earth shifted beneath her.

At that, Lincoln stepped in quickly, “it’s really not wise to tell us too much, Bellamy. The future is constantly in flux and if you say—”

“I know,” Bellamy rubbed his face roughly. “Fuck okay, Reyes, you still visit Finn’s family to make sure they’re doing okay.”

Raven stiffened and Clarke grabbed her hand, unthinking.

“No one knows that,” Raven whispered. “Literally, no one knows that.”

“I do, because you tell me.” Bellamy turned to Lincoln. “You’re not alone. Indra is alive.”

Lincoln’s dark skin paled with shock, “You can’t know that.”

“You gotta keep looking, man. I swear to you she’s alive.” Bellamy turned to Clarke and she cut off whatever he had in store for her with a vigorous shake of her head. Raven’s grip on her hand ground her bones together and anchored her down to earth.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Whatever it is that you’re going to say—

“You don’t have to do this, Clarke.”

“By the angel,” she exhaled, at his stubbornness, at how he crashed through her life “Do what?”

He waved a hand vaguely around them. “This. All of this.”

She remembered, again, that treacherous thought. Of quitting. Of living a mundane life. Children and schools and someone to love and no pointless wars and nothing nothing—

She hadn’t even dared breathe the thought into existence, yet here he was, this impossible man telling her a existence outside of the endless war she’s called a life was a somehow, against all odds, possible.  

“Come on,” Bellamy smiled, crooked and sweet, and her heart ached something _awful_. “I’m waiting on you, princess.”

~*~*~*~

Realistically, when one walks into a bar –a Downwolder bar, Bellamy is later told– and asked endless questions about the local vampire clan, they should probably expect to be dragged to a corner and nearly killed by said vampire clan because you just don’t pull that shit, apparently.

The woman, the fucking vampire, softly dragged a sharp nail across Bellamy’s forearm. He watched, fascination and horror warring within him, as the light scratch began to bleed profusely. The pain that followed was, to say the least, intense.

“You shouldn’t go around talking to strangers,” she said lightly. “You don’t know who might be listening in.”

Bellamy exhaled an ugly laugh, “You don’t say,”

She watched him, an almost amused expression on her face. “Tell me, mundane, what’re you dying for today?”

“My sister,” he replied, immediately. It was the most honest he’d ever been in his life.

_What’re you dying for today? My sister. My sister. Always my sister._  

She sighed, “Of course.”

The man behind her fidgeted nervously. “Jenna, you know Jasper will have your ass if he finds out you’re terrorizing mundanes again. This is the last damn thing we need with the Nephilim breathing down our necks.”

“I’m hardly terrorizing him,” She dragged her nail across Bellamy’s collarbone, he attempted to find relief away from her sharp hands, to no avail. His blood trickled steadily and stained his shirt dark and sticky. “Not yet anyways.”

“Jenna, for fuck’s sake, _please_.”

“But he smells so sweet,” Jenna dragged a finger across the bleeding wound and brought it to her mouth. She closed her eyes in contemplation and hummed, bright. “Tastes like honeysuckle.”

Really? _Really?_

“Really living up to the stereotype, aren’t we?” a disembodied voice said.

Bellamy cranked his neck over Jenna to see who’d came in, and well—

Later, much later, like _years_ later he’d regret comparing her to an angel because you cannot get any cheesier than that, considering, but this was now. She looked like a god damn miracle, he distantly thought. Blond hair too long and floating above her as she effortlessly jumped down an impossible height. She marched towards them, steady and unflinching in the face of the fanged mystical creatures. 

A miracle, he thought.

“That’s enough,” she said, solid as anything. Jenna stilled, mouth too close to his neck. The woman’s eyes found Bellamy’s and, _god_ , god he sounded like an idiot but it was colossal. Meeting her eyes, as she strode across the room to him, hair bright as a halo around her (again with the damn angel shit, what the fuck) weapon spinning in her hand, tattoos running down the length of her bare arms –that felt like the most important thing to ever happen to him, like, stupidly, his entire life had been leading up to this very moment. Bellamy felt the cool touch of relief spread through at her arrival, as if, despite not knowing a single thing about her, he knew he was saved. “Hello, Bellamy.”  

Bellamy’s heart tripped at the sound of his name coming out of her mouth.

The man accompanying Jenna threw up his hands in despair, seething, “He’s one of theirs, that’s wonderful. That’s really fucking wonderful, Jenna. I hope Jasper flings you into the sun.”

–and then he disappeared into the shadows, like the fucking cliché he was.

“Really living up to the stereotype,” the brunette woman snorted.

Jenna, good old Jenna, on the other hand, seemed to have a death wish.

“This isn’t Shadowhunter business, Wanheda.” she drawled, and boldly dragged a sharp nail across Bellamy’s face. He barely had the second to hiss in pain before the angel-woman and her friends (who he’d barely noticed, too busy enraptured by her, what the hell) sprung into action. They were, unsurprisingly at this point, unnaturally fast.  Between one blink and the next Bellamy found himself surrounded by the woman’s companions. Protected.

(--at one point during the exchange, the woman, the woman with the hair and the low voice had wrapped her arms around his waist to push him behind her. Bellamy still felt her touch like a brand, burning him.)

“Now,” the woman had Jenna backed against the wall with a glowing blade snug against her throat. He felt oddly honored by her aggression. “Who’s kidnapping mundanes?”

Jenna laughed, low and throaty. “You know, Clarke, for the mighty Commander of Death, you’re not all that scary up close.”

(Clarke. Clarke. Clarke.)

“Jenna I have had a fucking awful day,” Clarke hissed. “I mean, a really fucking awful day. Please answer the question.”  

“Oh, love” Jenna bared her fangs at them. “You’ll regret ever interfering when you find out. I truly don’t think your angel heart will be able to handle it.”

The brunette woman guarding Bellamy snorted, “Girl, the only one regretting anything is gonna be you when Jasper gets here and finds out you’ve been fucking up his alliances.”

Jenna’s good mood quickly disappeared at that and she lunged at Clarke, digging the blade deeper into her neck.

“By the angel, _stop._ We don’t murder each other anymore,” Clarke hissed, low voice hard. “Do not force my hand.”

“Oh,” Jenna laughed again, ugly. “We don’t kill each other _anymore_. Now, that you decided we’re worth living, yes Clarke? Your people killed Downwolders for generations, now we stop, because the Clave deemed it so?” Jenna bared her fangs, dangerous. “What if I told you the Nephilim no longer had the upper hand, Clarke? What if I told you a war was coming and you are sorely, sorely unprepared?”

“I’d say,” a disembodied voice answered her, “declaring war on the Night Children’s behalf is just about the stupidest god damn thing you can ever do.”

“Do you people practice creeping out of the shadows?” Bellamy wondered. His companions laughed loudly. Even Clark cracked a smile, at which Bellamy felt his heart clench weakly, ridiculously, literally the most fucking ridiculous thing to ever happen to him.

“Jasper,” Jenna gasped. “Jasper, please—

“Answer her question, Jenna.” Jasper, who looked like a fucking teenager, drawled. “Who is kidnapping mundanes?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “It doesn’t even matter. His sister is dead anyways I smelt her on him the moment I saw—

Bellamy felt his knees give out, only to remain upright but the sheer force of his companions holding him up.

“Wait,” the woman beside him hissed, “ _Wait._ Don’t give up yet, you asshole.”  

~*~*~*~

Jasper is a horrifying force when he chose to be and Clarke could only thank the angel that his anger was not directed at her today. All it took was a few hissed words into Jenna’s ear for her to frantically spit out a location. They watched, horror warring with an ugly sort of satisfaction, as he dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the darkness.

“I’ll follow you to the location,” Jasper had said. “Just after I deal with good old Jenna here.”

Unthinking, impulsive, everything she wasn’t, and overcome with an intense protectiveness that she barely knew what to do with, Clarke softly touched the wounding lining Bellamy’s face.

“You good?”

He watched her, weary. “I’m fine.”

This Bellamy didn’t know her. Didn’t watch her with kind eyes. This Bellamy was hurt and frightened and looking for his baby sister. Clarke suddenly wished she could take all the hurt coming his way and bear it herself. If only for him to have half a chance at the happiness that radiated off of the other Bellamy.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathed. She recalled the other Bellamy, the older Bellamy, the Bellamy with the easy smile and the kind eyes and she somehow missed him. She watched the way this Bellamy, her Bellamy, clenched his jaw tightly. “Bellamy, my name is Clarke Griffin. These are my friends Raven and Lincoln and—

She broke off. How do you deliver grief? Is there ever a proper way to do it?

“What?” he rasped. “God, spit it out. _What?_ ”

How would she like to hear it? If it were Raven or Wells or Lincoln?

“Be brave, Bellamy” she whispered.

He screwed his eyes shut, and waited for the inevitable.

“She’s alive,” Clarke said. “Octavia’s alive but not in the way she was before.”

He opened his eyes and stared her down, waiting, waiting. Clarke’s fingers itched to touch him again, to offer some semblance of comfort, instead she whispered what she was sure he already suspected. “They turned her. She’s a vampire.”

“You,” he croaked “you can’t know that. You can’t know that for certain. Until I see her.”

She remembered the way future Bellamy told them about Octavia’s turning. There was no sadness or grief there –it was just another phase of life. What were the words he’d used?

“She’s still her, Bellamy.” Clarke said. “She’s still your sister. She’s still here, just different, and right now she needs you more than she’s ever needed you in her life.”

He watched her, those big brown eyes. Finally, finally, after eons of silence. “You’re,” he cleared his throat roughly, “You’re gonna be there?”  

“I’ll be there,” she replied, firmly.

~*~*~*~

The woman, Clarke, _Clarke_ , had explained to him –slowly, calmly— the stages of turning into a vampire. She explained to him what Octavia could be like. Clarke explained to him, low voice in a near whisper, what Jasper was like when he’d turned, how he became clan leader, what the last ten years had been like. Bellamy’s very skin itched with anxiety as they neared the location Jenna had given up, his mind blank except for _OctaviaOctaviaOctavia_ and the thought of wrapping his little sister in his arms for the first time in over three months.

(Somewhere away from the static, the gentle way Clarke handled him nearly broke him in half. He saw the way she’d shoved Jenna into submission, he didn’t think she lived a life that let her ever be gentle.) 

“Here,” she produced a first aid kit somewhere from underneath her seat. “We usually don’t need these because of our runes, but we keep a few of these kits around because—

Her voice faltered and broke off. He waited, watching, as she cleaned the wound on his arm first, his chest, then his face. Soft as anything. Calloused hands like the touch of God herself.

“I wanted to be a doctor,” she finally whispered, “A mundane doctor. My mom loved this stuff.”

“Loved?” he asked, knowing she’d know exactly what he was asking.

She smiled, small and sad. “Shadowhunters live a hard, short life.”

“That’s a shitty way to live,” he said before he could stop himself.  

She snorted, and backed away. He felt cold all over at the loss of her.

“Can I ask you something?” He motioned for her to go on. “How’re you taking this so well?”

He was silent for a good, long while. “I felt it, when she turned I guess, and I thought she was gone for good. So, having her, Octavia be out there somewhere? Still here?” he shook his head ruefully. “I couldn’t give a fuck what she looked like.”

She smiled, as pretty as the sun.

“My turn,” he asked. She hummed for him to go on. “Are you gonna tell me how you know so much about me?”

She laughed, bright. Bellamy saw Raven turn in her seat, face alit with astonishment. Lincoln’s eyes watched them amusedly in the rearview mirror. Bellamy didn’t know these people, but god, he wanted to.

“That’s a story for another day,” Clarke replied.

“Clarke,” Lincoln called from the driver’s seat, and just like that, the lightness they’d created disappeared. “We’re here.”

Clarke’s hand found his quickly, and he squeezed it for dear life.

“Be brave,” she said again. “Be brave.” 

Bellamy had never seen anyone fight the way they fought, each their own style yet somehow, despite it, working together as a single and powerful entity. They were able to overcome the rogue vampire guarding the facility. He knew there were parties of Shadowhunters all across the city –all across the _world_ — currently raiding facilities just like this one where rogue vampires have been storing and turning kidnapped mundanes –all in an effort to overthrow the Nephilim.

He knew this. He understood why they took Octavia. He understood what a fledging was, what a vampire was. Bellamy accepted this gladly because he spent the last few days of his life thinking Octavia was _dead_ , this? This was a miracle and he’d take it, happily.

It was no longer a battle when Jasper and his clan finally caught up with them. Soon enough there was only quiet, and then—

“We’re in here!” a familiar voice called. “We’re in here!”

“That’s my sister,” he rasped. “That’s Octavia’s voice.”

“Back up!” Raven yelled. “I’m kicking the door!”

A mighty kick of Raven’s enhanced leg had the door flying off its hinges. Nothing, nothing, no amount of time or gentle coaxing could’ve prepared him for the sight of the fledglings huddled together with Octavia’s arms spread protectively over them.

“Of course,” he laughed, choked despite himself. “Of course you’d make being a vampire look easy.”

“Bell,” Octavia gasped, tears streaking her face red. “Bellamy, don’t come closer.”

“Shut up,” he huffed and pushed his way to her. Octavia collapsed in his arm –long heaving breaths that he knew she didn’t need to take shaking her, shaking him. They cried into each other’s necks.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “I thought you died.”

“I did, dumbass.” She hiccupped, and pressed her blood streaked face into his chest. “I’m literally dead.”

“Undead,” he corrected, unable to release her from his arms. Bellamy looked around at the terrified people surrounding them, some as young as teenagers, and looked back at Clarke. “What’re we going to do?”

No one missed the way he said _we_. He sure as hell didn’t miss the way he said _we_.

Clarke looked them, one by one, until her eyes fell back to Bellamy with a tired smile. “We’re gonna make this right. Together.”

Octavia snorted into his chest.  

~*~*~*~

After,

After,

_After,_

After the battles ended, and the Clave was forced to come face to face with its own shortcomings. After all the newly turned fledglings were assigned clans or reunited with their families. After weeks and weeks of diplomatic meetings, trying desperately to fix what could’ve been the end of their world as they know it. After it all, Clarke found herself in the quiet of the library.

She took a deep, cleansing breath. It felt like the first real breath she’d take since Wells.

“Hey princess,”

She smiled, already knowing who it was.

(After spending weeks where she and Bellamy circled around each other quietly. Getting to know each other with gentle questions and gentler hearts.)

Despite him being a mundane, Bellamy was there at every meeting, fighting and snarling for Downwolder rights and hating the Shadowhunters for allowing this to happen to his sister. He hated them for being so arrogant that an entire species banned together in an effort to wipe them out. She didn’t blame him. She never blamed him for hating them. 

Hell, when she saw him passionately fighting, Clarke loved him for it.

“When did you start calling me princess?” she laughed. She couldn’t believe how much easier it was to laugh now.

“I have no idea,” he replied. He took a seat beside her. “I think it was right after Raven explained the Wanheda thing.”

“Oh really,” Clarke raised a brow teasingly. “What else has Raven been explaining?”

He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “She’s been explaining Wells.”

Clarke couldn’t help the way her entire body stiffened at that.

“Nothing too much,” Bellamy quickly went on. “It’s obviously not her story to tell. Just enough.”

“Just enough for what?”

“Just enough to know that you need time.”

Clarke gapped at him. His hand found hers. The world could’ve found a way to end outside the walls of their little library and she would’ve never noticed.

“I just,” she exhaled. “Sometimes I’m good, you know? I feel fine, especially recently, especially with you. But other times, I feel all scooped out, like there’s nothing left.”

He nodded at her, serious, understanding.

“But I wanna do this,” Clarke whispered. “I want to be with you.”

He smiled, bright, bright, like the rest of Clarke’s life laid out before her.

“Take all the time you need, princess.” He pressed soft kisses to her scarred knuckles. “However long you need.”

~*~*~*~

“I’ll leave if you leave.”

Clarke looked up from her work, mouth agape, to find Raven very nearly glaring at her. “Excuse me?”

Raven snorted. “I didn’t mean that in the ultimatum sort of way. I just meant, you know, you and Lincoln are all I’ve got. If you want out, then so do I.”

At that, Lincoln stepped out from behind her, silent as ever.

“You can’t say shit like that,” Clarke croaked. “This is your life. This is all you’ve ever known.”

“Clarke,” Raven said. She sounded suddenly exhausted. “I haven’t wanted to do this for a long time, now. Since before Finn.”

That felt like lifetimes ago. 

“You never said anything,”

“We’re Shadowhunters, you know?” Raven shrugged. “I didn’t think we had an option until I saw the way the mundane looked at you. The way you looked at him.”

Clarke cleared her throat, knowing she was red all the way down her chest, and turned to Lincoln, “What about you? You can’t exactly give up being a warlock.” 

“No,” he smiled. “I can’t. But, I’ve lived for a long time and most of my years I wasn’t involved in the Shadow World. Plus, now—

His dark skinned reddened, a tell tale sign. Everyone was embarrassed all around.

“Plus, now there’s Octavia.” Clarke supplied, grinning Raven’s way.

Lincoln rolled his eyes heavenward. “Yes. There’s Octavia.” Lincoln scoffed his boot across the tile, a nervous habit that made him seem achingly, undeniably human. “You two are my family. I’d go to the ends of the world to be with you.”

Wells was gone.

“It’s not gonna be easy,” Clarke warned. “We can’t completely shut off the Shadow World; Octavia needs her clan. Demons will come after us. Not to mention the Clave. They’ll definitely try to make an example out of us.”

“Please,” Raven grinned, “we’ve beaten worse odds.”

Wells was gone and Clarke still felt his absence like a constant aching, but it was no longer all consuming, not when she stood there between two of her oldest, dearest friends. Not when she had a chance at a great love. Not when she knew that there was a family of her own in store for her somewhere in the future.

“Plus,” Raven went on to Lincoln. “I’d love to see a bunch of little Bellamy’s and Clarke’s running around, wouldn’t you?”

Clarke groaned. Lincoln laughed, loud and happy.

There was so much left to fight for.

                                                                                                                                                                                               

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for sticking it out :')


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